My Baby (Sun/Moon x Reader)

Fading-Kitten Syndrome

-x-

You would consider yourself a calm person. Someone who thinks before proceeding but won't hesitate to help. It has always been this way and will always be.

Not to say you are apathetic by any means—quite the opposite, actually. You feel every emotion to the fullest, but you are always able to contain it. To never say a word when mad, or to act on an impulse when upset.

Panic is an emotion everyone feels, including you. You feel it when someone you care about is hurt, and you feel it when everything feels out of control. It is a normal emotion, a normal reaction to something stressful. But instead of letting it consume you—feed your head with fear and worry—you use the adrenaline rush it gives to your advantage while maintaining control over it so you won't become overwhelmed.

That is how you solve your problems. It is why you seem like a reliable source of help: because you solve things with ease.

You wish you felt this way right now.

You wish you felt that you were that reliable and strong, that every problem is easily held in your hands like a knotted piece of jewelry that you untangle with the power of patience.

There is a trembling of fear that feels like it vibrates from your very own bones. Your hands shake subtly, and no control could ever help you hide it.

The adrenaline that courses through you is pointless. It leaves you restless in your seat. Helpless.

The car was heating up increasingly, and your breath no longer fogs. It is warm enough that your muscles should go lax.

And yet, the being in your arms is still cold as ice.

Their eyes are closed, but they flutter open occasionally. They are unseeing. They're not really there. Their mouth opens and closes as if wishing to speak, but no words come out. Sharp teeth glint in the morning light, the blood over their lips chipping like dried paint.

Using the end of your sleeve, you carefully start to try and clean the mess off their face. The locks of hair, blond and black, are greasy and stuck together in knots. You pull them to the side and tuck others under the hem of the nightcap, trying to keep them out of the way.

Your jacket's sleeve slowly glides over their face, wiping away dried blood and tears and sweat and a liquid that seemed to aggravate their skin more and more. Thin eyebrows furrow, their eyes shut tight.

A noise of discomfort greets your ministrations, and you feel them squirm slightly underneath you. A hand comes up, slow and shaky, and tries to push you away. Though, all it does is rest on your chest, too weak to move any further, let alone push.

Their other hand tries to move from the confines of the jacket wrapped around them. Perhaps to readjust, or perhaps to try and keep on pushing at you, but midway through it, they cry out.

The noise is louder than any other, and you can't help but flinch. Your heart aches.

And they begin to cry, weeping almost silently. Tears stream down their face, circling tired eyes and sliding down to collect under their head where it lies. They try to curl on themselves fruitlessly, and simply end up pressing into you. The action is familiar in a bittersweet way, and you feel awful for the comfort closure almost brings you.

Their head lolls to rest on your shoulder, hiding away from the light, or perhaps unable to keep upright anymore.

Your eyes survey them once more, one hand coming to shed away the jacket they are cocooned in to take a better look. The urge to search for the source of pain is impossible to resist—you want to study every small cut under a microscope so you'd make no mistakes when fixing it.